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by trustingHim17



Series: Moving On [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Watson's pov of the last chapter of Words Unspoken. dealing with more of the effects of PTSD and depression
Series: Moving On [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719565
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Home

He stood outside the hotel, weighing his options. Crowds parted around him until he moved to the edge of the walkway, more to prevent pickpocketing than out of any regard for the passerby. What could he do? Where could he go?

None of the hospitals or clinics had any positions open, so what little money he had in his pocket he would have to make last. If he wanted to change his original decision and leave, he had enough for the train ticket, and maybe a few meals if he wanted them. The next train to Edinburgh left in an hour. Or, he could find somewhere else to sleep until the next train left in two days, in which case he would be traveling third class if he wanted to eat in the meantime.

He considered finding an Irregular to send a message to Mrs. Hudson, asking if she would send his checkbook. This would be much easier if he had access to his funds, but that carried the chance that Holmes would follow the boy, or come in his stead, to remonstrate him for leaving without it. He couldn’t handle that.

After rattling around London for so long without Holmes seeking him out, he knew the friendship was over. It was simpler, less painful, to leave that burning bridge than brave it even to get his checkbook. He would send for his things, payable upon delivery, when he was settled somewhere out of London.

A hollow sort of grief rippled through him at the thought, lost in the grey pounding of the rest of the storm. He barely noticed, glad of the numbness that kept him from crumbling. The numbness was the only thing holding him together, and he hoped it would continue to hold until he could find a stable roof over his head. This was survival, now, and there was no time for grieving. Not yet, anyway. He would deal with that later.

A passerby jostled him, breaking him out of his thoughts and making him tighten his grip on his bag. The last thing he needed was a pickpocket taking everything he had, but his things were all as they should be.

He set off walking, wondering where he could go. Should he go ahead and leave? He thought he rather wanted to, but he didn’t know where Lestrade could be reached, so leaving now would mean leaving without telling Lestrade first. He couldn’t do that to his only friend, not after the inspector had supported him through Holmes’ death. Lestrade deserved better than that.

So where could he stay for the next two nights as he waited for the next train? His pocketbook couldn’t handle a train ticket _and_ another hotel, even a hostel or the cheap ones down by the docks. He sank into his thoughts, trying to use the planning of where he was going to go to distract himself from the loss and grief vying for his attention. He was slowly remembering how to control that—a control he had learned after Mary’s death—and soon enough he would remember how to turn it all off. Turn it off, box it up, and come back to it later—or never. Why bother? Grieving the loss of his friendship with Holmes wouldn’t bring it back, wouldn’t do anything to change that his dearest friend wanted nothing to do with him after a meaningless argument. Holmes would have found him by now if he had wanted to, probably using the mud on his shoes the last time he had gone out, or something like that. That he was still alone said much. Holmes was probably back at the flat, messing with his chemistry set and enjoying the silence.

He shook himself back to the more important problem. Where would he stay?

This thought occupied him for some time as he walked, but he had no good answer. He couldn’t go home, back to Baker Street; he would grieve the loss of yet another home eventually. The train north was long gone. His pocketbook was too depleted for another hotel, and he had no one from whom he could ask for a bed.

He sighed. He hated the mere idea, but there was only one option.

He went first to one of Holmes’ bolt holes, watching it for a long while to ensure there was no one there. When he felt certain it was empty, he let himself in. Inside was several degrees warmer than outside, but he had no time to enjoy that. He had no way of knowing when or if Holmes or one of Holmes’ contacts would come to this hideout, nor did he know how much Holmes would like the idea of him using bolt hole supplies. He had to hurry.

In the back corner, with some emergency supplies he had helped Holmes restock after his return the year before, was the tarpaulin he remembered. Under it were several cans of food and a small burner. He shoved two cans, the burner, and some rope from another shelf into his valise and tucked the folded tarpaulin under his arm, leaving his other arm free to hold the cane the rapidly changing weather necessitated. He would return on his way to the station to replace the tarpaulin and the burner, and he doubted Holmes would think anything of two cans of food disappearing, likely writing it off as one of his many contacts finding himself in a bind. That was true enough, he supposed.

With a glance to ensure he remained unnoticed, he was out and back on a busy thoroughfare within five minutes. The flow of humanity parted around him as he limped his way down the sidewalk. Regent’s Park was on the other side of Baker Street, and he detoured, giving his old flat a several-block berth. He would have preferred to avoid the area entirely, but Hyde Park didn’t have the wild, concealed corner to it that Regent’s Park did. Hyde Park was too small, too open, and he had no wish to be locked up for vagrancy and camping in public space. He would miss his train if that happened, and there was no reason to stay in London alone any longer than he absolutely had to. He could hide his camp better in Regent’s Park, and, besides, if he _was_ noticed, the closest constable was more likely to be one he knew, one more likely to simply make him leave than to lock him up.

He had never liked sleeping in a tent—had grown to despise it after Afghanistan—but those skills he had gained in the war became useful as he set up his small camp in a thick copse of trees. The small creek with its high banks would shelter him on one side, and the trees made spotting him difficult from any other side. How ironic was it that one of the things for which Holmes had ridiculed him, had used against him in their last argument, was what gave him a cover for the storm rolling in?

He huffed a laugh born more of bitterness than amusement. Trapped in the war, indeed. Look at him. He had believed Holmes the year before when he said he wanted to help. He had voiced what to expect, what to look for, what to know. And when it backfired, when Holmes used that information against him, he had ended up here, in a bivouac built in a city park. He had brought the war to London.

A stick cracked behind where he sat going through his valise in front of the tarpaulin, and he tensed, waiting for the attack his mind said was coming. When nothing happened, he turned back to his inventory. His clothes were clean, thanks to the hotel laundry he had used the night before. He had two days’ worth of food. He had a cover to prevent a drenching from the building storm, and, thanks to his military training, a bed off the ground. The tarpaulin certainly wouldn’t be comfortable to sleep in like a hammock, but it would do, and it would keep his few things safe from moisture, thieves, and the gangs that roamed this park.

With nowhere to go—every hospital, clinic, and other job possibility in area had already rejected him—he did very little that day except think and plan. Where should he go first, once out of London? Should he follow his original plan of going to his family town, or should he go somewhere else? Further north? The continent? Did he want to search for a job in the hospitals, or should he try to be some general practitioner’s assistant in the hopes of eventually having his own practice?

Voices interrupted his ponderings: two of them, and coming closer. He stood, his cane in his off hand, as if leaning on it, while he held his revolver in his right pocket.

“Who’r you?” one said when they intruded on his clearing.

The two men stumbling into his camp were well on their way to drunk. Scruffy, unshaven, and wearing dingy clothes little more than rags, the shorter one he had never seen, but he recognized the taller one.

“Afternoon, Bradstreet,” he replied coolly, keeping his hand on his revolver. Bradstreet was one of the leaders of the gang that claimed Regent’s Park, and, unlike the others, he could be reasoned with, if one caught him before he dove headfirst into a bottle. Judging by Bradstreet’s ability to speak without majorly slurring, there was a chance he was still in possession of most of his faculties.

Identifying him by name brought a wary look. “D’I knows you?” he asked.

He thought a moment, trying to recall if Bradstreet had ever met him as Doctor Watson, friend and assistant of Sherlock Holmes. “No. But I know you.”

He settled into a defensive stance as Bradstreet took a step forward, letting his cane give the impression he was weak even as he readied himself to use it as a weapon.

Bradstreet halted, staring in recognition. “Military?” he asked, and received a nod in reply. “Why’r you ‘ere?”

No threats? No attack? He dared not let down his guard, but he answer shortly. “Evicted.”

“Go’na stay long?”

He jerked his head in a quick negative. “Few days.” He remained silent a moment, watching as the shorter man edged closer, and he slipped deeper into his stance. “I warn you. If you attack me, you will not win.”

Bradstreet studied him as the shorter man froze, perhaps seeing the combat readiness beginning to take over. He could feel it, himself. He had been one step away from battle for several days. A physical attack would drive him over the edge; he would either emerge victor, or dead. 

“Smith.” The shorter man stepped back to stand next to Bradstreet, who continued, “I’d a brother ‘o was military.”

He looked to see if Bradstreet would expand on that statement, but silence reigned. “Leave me alone, and I’ll return the favor,” he offered when the other man remained quiet.

Bradstreet stared at him a moment then nodded. He and Smith retraced their weaving steps back into the more open section of the park.

No one else found him, and he passed the rest of that day and all the next morning in the immediate vicinity of his camp. Chiding himself for jumping at every crack in the forest did nothing to prevent him from doing it again, and the night had more nightmarish memories than sleep, especially when the promised thunderstorm rolled through shortly after midnight. His makeshift hammock and cover kept him dry, but the rolling, booming thunder sounded way too much like the gunfire in his nightmares. He was exhausted by morning and still just as jumpy, cursing himself when a squirrel jumping from branch to branch had him in a defensive stance before he was consciously aware of the noise.

More exhausted with every passing hour, he was considering trying to sleep in the slowly fading daylight when he heard nearly silent footsteps approaching his camp. Someone was coming, and, more importantly, that someone was trying to sneak up on him.

He was in his defensive stance between the intruder and his tarpaulin before he was fully cognizant of moving.

“Who’s there?” he called, and the footsteps silenced a moment, perhaps trying to decide whether to come closer now that they had been caught. He was about to call out again, demanding they show themselves, when Holmes stepped into the clearing, stopping several feet away from where he stood.

The detective was nervous; his fidgeting showed that well enough. He continually shifted his weight from foot to foot, fiddled with his sleeve, and ran his hand through his hair, which was already sticking up at all angles. The more important question was why. Why was Holmes nervous? Why had Holmes come to him after four days of silence? He hadn’t been trying to hide, but Holmes had avoided him just the same.

He stared, waiting for his former flatmate to speak. Perhaps he wanted to continue their argument? It wouldn’t matter if he did. An argument is only an argument if both sides participate, and he had no intention of losing his temper again. With how hollow he felt, he wasn’t entirely sure he had a temper to lose.

“Your bags are packed,” Holmes finally said after several false starts.

Ah, that’s what this was about. He had left without packing his things from the sitting room. Holmes must have found some of them in his way and finished packing for him. Better that then throwing it all out, he supposed.

“My train leaves tomorrow. They’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

“Your… _train_?”

Well, that was a curious—and unexpected—response. It had seemed almost as if Holmes had choked. Certainly, Holmes’ question sounded a bit strange: the final word was barely audible.

“No reason to stay,” he answered shortly. Why would that be a surprise? Even Lestrade knew he had been planning to move out of London before Holmes’ return. Why would he stay in London now that Holmes had made it plain he wanted to be alone?

Holmes seemed to be having trouble finding his words, which was bizarre. “How long have you been here?”

He nearly shrugged, stopping it at the last moment because it would have wrecked his defensive stance, leaving him vulnerable. “Couple days.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as Holmes appeared to be groping for words again. For the first time in a while, he had no idea what the detective was trying to say, but it had to be something important. Otherwise, Holmes would have already left.

“Are you alright?”

The question caught him by surprise. Was he alright? How could he be ‘alright’? His dearest friend had told him to go away, he couldn’t leave the city for another day because his only other friend was out of town, and he was sleeping in Regent’s Park in a hammock made from a borrowed tarpaulin because he lacked the money for a hotel room. Even a child could have deduced the answer to that question. He huffed what was supposed to be a laugh and turned away. If Holmes were planning to attack him, he would have done so already. He was going to curl up in his prickly hammock and hope that he would be alone when he next woke. Better to be alone than be asked such a thing. ‘Alright,’ indeed.

What _was_ ‘alright,’ anyway? he mused as he walked towards his hammock. He wasn’t sure he remembered. It was surely not this numb, hollow feeling consuming him, ripping him apart, trying to suffocate him whenever he stopped distracting himself, whenever he tried to think of anything besides planning his movements. Speaking of planning his movements, should he move his camp, now that more than one person had found him? No, there was nowhere else to set up, and he had to stay until the train tomorrow afternoon. Maybe, if he skipped eating the other half of the can of food he had opened that morning, he could eat that and the other can on the train instead of eating in the dining car and be able to afford a first-class ticket. He certainly had no appetite, and that would at least guarantee him privacy. With no interruptions, it would be easier to decide where he wanted to go. He still hadn’t decided if he had a better chance of finding a job in his childhood town or a larger city. The city would have a higher number of positions, but the small town where he had grown up might provide a job based on his name and remembering his parents. It would never be a home, but after the loss of yet another one, he thought that might be a good thing. Then maybe he could avoid feeling so hollow when it inevitably shattered around him. Not to mention, if he went back to that small town, he might even find someone with whom he had grown up, though he rather doubted that. Most of them had been planning to move out of that town as well, and he had lost track of Murray after—but he shouldn’t think of that, either. Where _should_ he go? Both options had their positives and negatives, and—

“Come back?”

He paused mid-step as the question interrupted his musing. Holmes’ voice sounded strangely uncertain behind him, but he was more focused on the words. Over the years, he had grown skilled, he thought, at hearing what Holmes wanted to say rather than what he actually said, and that had sounded like an apology. But that made no sense. He knew Holmes only put up with him. Holmes had made that abundantly clear four days ago. It had taken a year to sink in, which was longer than he had expected, but Holmes had finally realized that the threat he had become outweighed the few uses he possessed. The ability of a few nightmares to make him so jumpy and irritable proved that well enough, and Holmes had merely confirmed it. Why would Holmes be trying to apologize?

“Come…home?”

If something sounded too good to be true, it probably was, he recalled, but he had to know. It would finish him when it fell apart, but he couldn’t walk away, not when he wanted to go home with everything he was. It wasn’t as if much would change when it crumbled again. He was as good as finished, anyway.

“Why would you want a meddlesome cripple of a soldier who can’t leave the war behind?” he asked without turning around, cursing himself when the hope he dared not feel crept out in his voice.

“Why would you forgive an egotistical detective who can’t figure out how to apologize after he was too busy with that blasted chemistry set to pay attention to what he was saying?”

He turned around at that despite the caution inside him warning against gullibility, against hearing what he wanted to hear only for it to explode again, wanting to see whatever thoughts Holmes let him view. That couldn’t have been what it had sounded like. Even if Holmes was trying to apologize, why would he? He _was_ a meddlesome cripple, and the camp behind him was proof enough of his inability to leave the war behind.

“Why would you want to apologize?” he asked. “Everything you said was true.”

A minute amount of shock rippled over Holmes’ face. “No, it was _not_! You are _not_ a meddlesome cripple, and if being a soldier taught you how to do _this_ ,” a hand waved to encompass the small bivouac that had sprung up in Regent’s Park, “then obviously you should _not_ leave it behind. And I am _glad_ you came to London!”

He struggled to wrap his mind around what Holmes was saying. It made no sense. Why shouldn’t he leave it behind? And how could Holmes be glad he had come to London if he was useless on their cases and unsafe as a flatmate?

“Why?” he asked, struggling to voice all the questions swirling through his mind.

For once, Holmes seemed unable to gather his meaning from a word or less. “Why, what?”

“Why should I not leave it behind?” he chose, feeling that more or less encompassed all his questions. “It’s been fifteen years. I should have moved on by now. I shouldn’t still be dreaming of it every night.” A stick cracked nearby, and he tensed, still subconsciously expecting an attack that never came, that would probably never come. “I shouldn’t be jumping at random noises in a city park,” he forced himself to continue after a long moment. “I shouldn’t despise the smell of hot sulfur, and I shouldn’t still be worrying that a memory is going to take over and make me attack someone who startles me.”

He had never been good at reading all of Holmes’ expressions, but if he didn’t know better, he would think that was something akin to remorse on the detective’s features. But remorse for what? He didn’t understand.

“You should keep it because you _learned_ from it,” Holmes answered forcefully. “I have told you before that even the smallest detail could be of major importance. How many times have you commented that I could find anyone in London? Hundreds?”

He stared, trying to figure out why Holmes was bringing that up. Of course, he knew Holmes could find anyone in London. That was part of what had shown him that Holmes truly wanted nothing to do with him.

“You _disappeared_ , Watson. For _four_ _days_. I’ve checked every hospital, every clinic, every hotel, and every acquaintance of yours I could think of. The Irregulars never saw you. Even the Yard had no idea where you were, and I would have thought you would go there first. I was about to get the passenger manifests for the trains to Aberdeen and Edinburgh when Charlie came with word that Bradstreet’s gang had been warned to avoid Regent’s Park for a few days. It took me _four days_ to find you, and when I finally got a lead, I found you in a one-person military bivouac in a park five minutes from…from where I last saw you.”

Holmes had been searching for him? And he had unintentionally eluded the detective for four days? But…the only reason Holmes would have kept up the search that long would be if… He couldn’t finish the thought. The last time an adult had willingly disappeared (without any sort of foul play) in one of Holmes’ cases, Holmes had announced that if he hadn’t found the person after two or three days, there was no use searching further.

His attention snapped back to the present as Holmes took a step closer.

“Come home, Watson.” A hint of something—perhaps pleading?—slipped into the detective’s voice.

He stared, watching, looking for the few tells Holmes had that would reveal what was left unsaid. Holmes kept eye contact; he was in earnest enough to watch for an answer. The corners of his mouth turned down a fraction; he was worried. He continued to fidget nervously; he was afraid the answer would be no?

That clinched it. The knowledge that Holmes was so worried about being refused that it would show in his body language told him that the unspoken apology he had just heard had been the truth, and the demand to get out that Holmes had snapped days before had been the lie. The numbness began retreating, replaced with a tentative hope.

He could go home.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to try their hand at the argument that started all this, I'd love to see it! :)  
> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories :D


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